He was a tawny giant, exuding a force and virility and a compelling magnetism that gripped one instantly.  It affected Sanderson; the sight of the man caused Sanderson’s eyes to glow with reluctant admiration.

And yet Sanderson disliked the man; he know instantly that this was Alva Dale, concerning whom the Drifter had spoken; and the glow died out of Sanderson’s eyes and was replaced by the steady gleam of premeditated and deliberate hostility.

For an instant there was no word spoken; the glances of the two men met, crossed, and neither man’s eyes wavered.

Then the big man spoke, gruffly, shortly, coldly:  “What do you want?”

Sanderson smiled faintly.  “You runnin’ things here?” he said, slowly.

“Hell!” snarled the other, and stepped forward.

“Because if you are,” resumed Sanderson, his voice bringing the big man to a halt, “you’re the man I’m wantin’ to do my gassin’ to.  If you ain’t runnin’ things, why, I reckon you ain’t in the deal at all.”

“Well, I’m runnin’ things,” sneered the other.  “Tell me what you’re wantin’ or pull your freight out of here, pronto!”

“I’m sure some disturbed over my mistake,” grinned Sanderson.  “You couldn’t be anybody but Bransford, or you wouldn’t shoot off your gab that reckless.  If you’re Bransford, I’m apologizin’ to you for talkin’ back to you.  But if you ain’t Bransford, get off your hind legs an’ talk like a man!”

The big man stiffened, and his eyes glittered malignantly.  He moved his feet slightly apart and let his body fall into a crouch.  He held that position, though, not moving a finger, when he saw a saturnine smile wreathe Sanderson’s lips, noted the slight motion with which Sanderson edged Streak around a little, caught the slow, gradual lifting of Sanderson’s shoulder—­the right; which presaged the drawing of the heavy pistol that swung at Sanderson’s right hip.

Both men held their positions for some seconds; and the slow, heavy breathing of the big man indicated his knowledge of the violence that impended—­the violence that, plainly, Sanderson would not retreat from.

Then the big man’s body began to relax, and a tinge of color came into his face.  He grinned, malevolently, with forced lightness.

“Hell,” he said; “you’re damned particular!  I’m runnin’ things here, but I ain’t Bransford!”

“I was reckonin’ you wasn’t,” said Sanderson, mockingly.  He now ignored the big man, and fixed his gaze on one of the women—­the one he felt must be Mary Bransford.

He had found time, while talking with the big man, to look twice at the two women—­and he had discovered they were not women at all, but girls.  More, he had discovered that one of them looked as he had pictured her many times during the days since he had heard of her from the Drifter.

She was standing slightly aside from the men—­and from the other girl.  She was pale, her eyes were big and fright-laden, and since Sanderson’s comings she had been looking at him with an intense, wondering and wistful gaze, her hands clasped over her breast, the fingers working stiffly.